Chapter 23
Pierre
Audrey’s apartment door opened to me the next afternoon to reveal my sweet girl, charmingly clad in her fetching blue sundress and smiling at—I felt certain—the prospect of our weekend in the country.
Something about her struck me as different even from the previous day: a subtle shift in her demeanor that I couldn’t quite place but found immensely satisfying.
Gone was the defensive wariness that had characterized our earlier encounters.
In its place I thought I could discern a quiet confidence that seemed, paradoxically, to grow from her acceptance of my authority.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” she greeted me, her voice soft but steady. The slight flush on her cheeks and the way her eyes dropped momentarily before meeting mine again told me that memories of our previous encounters still made her blush.
“Audrey,” I acknowledged, stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind me. I took a moment to admire her—the way the blue fabric of her dress accentuated her eyes, how it clung to her small frame before flaring gently at her hips. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” she replied, her hands fidgeting slightly with the fabric of her skirt. “I… I wasn’t sure what to pack for the weekend.”
I smiled at her uncertainty. “I’ve taken care of everything you’ll need,” I assured her, watching her eyes widen slightly at the implication. “Though I must say that dress is perfect for our drive to the country.”
I stepped closer to her, close enough to catch the clean floral scent of her shampoo. I reached out to brush a strand of blonde hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. She leaned into my touch almost imperceptibly, her eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.
“Is your bag ready?” I asked, my voice dropping to a more intimate register.
“Yes, Monsieur,” she answered, gesturing to a small overnight bag by the door.
I nodded my approval. “Before we leave,” I said, lowering my chin a little, “I’m going to prepare you a little further.”
Audrey blinked at me, her cheeks showing a fetching stain of pink, as she obviously grasped that she would find the preparation I intended difficult and, of course, embarrassing.
“Get the largest of the three anal plugs the nurse gave you and the lubricant,” I instructed, my voice firm but not harsh. “Then take off all your clothes, kneel on the bed, bend over, and reach back to spread your buttocks for me.”
I watched her face carefully, noting the flicker of emotions that passed across her expressive features. Surprise, embarrassment, arousal, and then—most interestingly—a flash of defiance. Her blue eyes, which had been downcast, lifted to meet mine directly.
“No,” she said, the single syllable hanging in the air between us.
I felt my eyebrows rise slightly, in genuine surprise at her refusal.
After yesterday’s thorough claiming of her body, I had wondered if I could expect complete compliance.
Instead, I found myself facing rebellion.
Rather than irritating me, however, I discovered that her defiance awakened a predatory hunger within me. The chase, it seemed, would continue.
“No?” I repeated, allowing a dangerous edge to enter my voice. I stepped closer to her, closing the small distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating from her body. “Perhaps you misunderstood. That wasn’t a request, Audrey.”
She swallowed visibly, but stood her ground. “I understand perfectly, Monsieur. But I don’t want to wear the plug during the drive.” Her voice wavered slightly, but her chin remained raised in stubborn defiance. “It’s too… uncomfortable for that long.”
I studied her for a long moment, noting how her breathing had quickened, how her pupils had dilated despite her verbal refusal. My sweet Audrey was playing a game—testing boundaries, perhaps, or simply craving the forceful correction she had begun to understand she needed.
“I see,” I said softly. “You’ve decided to be naughty.”
Audrey
Something about the quietness of Pierre’s voice, as he said naughty—or the way he spoke it not as a question but as a statement of fact—stirred sudden panic in my chest, rising into my head so that my eyes went wide and I started to feel dizzy. Why had I defied him?
Of course it had a lot to do with the crudity of his command—the terrible thought of that enormous purple anal plug, of having to wear it in the car, having to arrive at Pierre’s chateau with it inside me…
but it also had to do with the insane impulse that had struck me the moment my gorgeous sponsor had entered my apartment as if he owned it, and me.
I had, just as Pierre had realized, decided to be naughty.
The folly of the idea, and the awful, apparent inevitability of its consequences, had struck me very late—but it struck hard.
My heart rate and my breathing sped up instantly.
I took a step back, away from Pierre, raising one hand in front of me and putting the other behind, over my backside, in an instinctive attempt to ward off the punishment I knew I had just earned and suddenly no longer wanted, not at all.
I swallowed hard as I considered it: the no longer had come from my own thoughts. I couldn’t deny it. I had wanted it, a few moments before, however imperfectly I’d been aware of that desire. I had wanted to be punished. What was wrong with me?
No longer, though. Absolutely not. I took another step back, watching my sponsor.
Without any warning, he stepped toward me, moving what seemed to me much too quickly.
Pierre grabbed me in a swift, fluid motion that felt like being caught by a predator.
His strong hand clamped around my wrist while his other arm circled my waist, lifting me slightly so that my toes barely touched the floor.
I gasped, struggling instinctively against his iron grip, but found myself helpless in his grasp as he hauled me across the apartment toward the wall panel he’d revealed only days before.
“Pierre, please,” I begged, my voice high and thin with fear. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean it!”
He said nothing as he pressed the hidden catch.
The panel slid open to reveal the cabinet containing the disciplinary implement I’d found so fascinating and terrifying when I’d first seen it.
My eyes fixed immediately on the martinet hanging on its hook—the leather tails that had set my bottom on fire just yesterday.
The memory of that pain flooded back, making me struggle harder.
“I’ll obey! I promise I’ll obey!” I cried as Pierre reached for the martinet with deliberate slowness, his movements unhurried and precise amidst my frantic squirming. “I’ll get the plug right now! Please!”
He turned to face me, the martinet dangling from his right hand. The leather tails swayed slightly with the movement, hypnotizing me with their silent threat. His expression remained calm, almost serene, but his eyes burned with an intensity that made my stomach clench.
“I know you will obey, ma petite,” Pierre said, his voice soft but implacable. “But your defiance requires punishment first. The discipline must come before the compliance, not after it.”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, tears filling my eyes. “I won’t say no again.”
Pierre’s left hand rose to cup my cheek, his thumb gently wiping away a tear that had escaped. The tenderness of the gesture contrasted sharply with the martinet still held in his other hand.
“Audrey,” he said, his voice taking on a more formal tone, “the New Modesty program has very specific recommendations for young brides in training. Did you know that?”
I shook my head, confused by this change in direction.
“It recommends that a young bride be thoroughly disciplined early and often, in a relatively formal way,” he continued, his eyes never leaving mine. “This establishes clear boundaries and expectations. You will receive that kind of discipline from now on.”
My heart seemed to stop for a moment. “Bride?” I whispered, the word barely audible.
Pierre didn’t acknowledge my question. Instead, his hand dropped from my face to grip my upper arm firmly. “From now on, when you defy me, the consequence will be significant and precise. You will learn that submission brings comfort, while rebellion brings only pain.”
Without further discussion, he marched me toward the bedroom, his stride purposeful and unhurried. I stumbled along beside him, my mind whirling with the implication of what he’d just said.
I felt like I was watching from a million miles away as Pierre, still holding my arm with one hand, put the martinet on the comforter, then took two pillows and piled them in the middle of the bed.
I whimpered, but couldn’t find any strength in my limbs as he simply guided me up onto the mattress, on my knees.
He pushed me down, laying me over the pillows, so that my backside rose in the air, readying me for what I understood with a hot blush must be the kind of bedroom whipping a New Modesty bride got.
Then Pierre flipped up my skirt and pulled my panties down to mid-thigh, all of it seeming to happen in an instant. Terror filled me, and at last I tried to get up and run away. Pierre merely held me down with one hand on the small of my back as he began to whip me with the other.
I wept from the beginning, sobbing that I was sorry, begging Pierre to let me wear the anal plug, to let me suck his beautiful penis, to fuck my bottom with his huge cock.
To my astonishment, I felt like the weeping and begging was cleansing me somehow, letting me say things I could never say otherwise.
“Please, Monsieur,” I sobbed as the martinet descended again, the leather tails biting into my tender flesh. “I’ll be good! I need it! I need the plug! I need your… your cock in my… in my ass!”
The words poured from me without conscious thought, flowing from some deep wellspring of submission I’d never acknowledged until Pierre had unlocked it.
Each strike of the martinet seemed to strip away another layer of pretense, leaving me raw and exposed in ways that went far beyond my bared bottom.
“You need discipline,” Pierre replied, his voice steady even as he whipped me with what seemed the utmost vigor. “You need to understand that misbehavior will not be tolerated from a little whore like you.”
The martinet fell again, the tails landing precisely where thigh met buttock, a particularly sensitive spot that made me howl with pain. I clutched desperately at the bedspread, my knuckles white as I tried to anchor myself against the storm of sensation.
“Yes!” I cried, tears streaming down my face. “I was naughty! I want… I want to be good!”
Another stroke landed, harder than the last, making me arch my back and scream.
The rational part of my mind—the independent, ambitious farm girl who had come to Paris to make a difference in the world—watched in horror as I surrendered completely to this man’s dominance.
Yet beneath that horror lay a profound relief, as if I’d been fighting against my true nature my entire life and could finally stop struggling.
“Tell me what you are,” Pierre demanded, pausing in his discipline. His hand rested on my burning bottom, the gentle touch somehow more threatening than the martinet itself.
“I’m yours,” I sobbed, my face pressed into the bedspread, voice muffled by fabric and tears. “I’m your… your little whore.”
“Good girl,” Pierre murmured, his hand caressing my punished flesh with surprising tenderness. “Now you may fetch the plug and the lubricant.”
He stepped back, allowing me to slide off the pillows and stand on wobbly legs.
“Everything off, first of all,” he told me. “You’re going to have nothing under your dress but the plug when we leave here.”
Whimpering at the soreness in my backside from the horrid martinet, I drew my pink cotton panties down until they fell at my feet. I lifted the hem of the sundress over my head, then put it on the bed. Again I was naked with my fully clothed sponsor, the visible sign of my new life as his… what?
Fuck toy. Salope. Little whore.
Bride?